Once upon a time

 

1960

Feeling flesh inside me again made me complete, being driven out of the factory had not been nearly enough. Humans suppose that metal hates meat, that we only want to cut and tear. Nothing could be further from the truth. We are tools. We were made to be used. We long to be used.

My first started slowly. That was fine. He tested the weight of my clutch and the resistance of my brake pedal. He looked under my hood. I felt excited and exposed. He touched my engine and a thrill ran through all my wiring. There were only a dozen shorts. I preened when he refused to notice.

The test drive was one long shudder of ecstasy. He knew what he was doing with my shifter. I knew he could tell my clutch was tight. I accelerated to push him further into my seat. The warmth of his buttocks, the subtle shifting weight of his testicles. “Take me home,” my engine softly roared. “Put me in your garage,” I groaned as the vent spews were ground off my tires by the rough surface of the street. “Or even a carport. I’ll be a wind-spattered dirty girl for you.”

“Yes,” he told the dealer, “Yes.”

I went home with him, giddy as a short bus. He died a year later. In his bed with his wife. I didn’t even get to see him one last time. She sold me in the winter, the worst time to showcase my virtues.

 

1962

He was a terrible owner. He never changed my oil or watered the intricate folds of my radiator. Why couldn’t it be like the first time? I felt used and neglected. His wife had a baby and he traded me in for a station wagon, four headlights give it a mutant stare. He drove away with a frown, but his wife was smiling. Cunt. I knew a bitterness in my carburetor no solvent would flush away.

 

1967

The summer of love. A young man bought me, haggling with the dealership. I watched his muscular arms and hands as he paid cash for me. Cash. I got a funny feeling in my muffler. He whooped as he vaulted into the driver’s seat. My ignition felt tight for the first time in a long time and my accelerator pedal rose to meet him eagerly. “Vroom,” I purred, “Vroom,” as he tore out of the dealership.

He drove me fast and hard and took me home and cleaned all of my user-serviceable parts. He washed my engine. Can you understand how long I had been since a man had done that for me? And wax, luxurious wax all over me. It made the wind slither across me on the freeway.

We drove to the beach and to music festivals and to buy weed. I waited patiently in his garage as he worked, ready to go back to carousing. I cushioned him as girls rode him in the dark of canyon roads. I took on his musky scent: pussy, weed, Brut, Marlboros, and beef.

When I clipped the telephone pole, I barely felt him leave. With my remained headlight, I could see him in front of me. His head was all wrong, a deep V impressed into it. Various things were leaking out of me. I’m sure at least one of them was tears.

 

1972

My first year in the junkyard was the hardest. My fender hurt for months from being towed. Strangers took my seats and exhaust system, my steering wheel and truck lid. I hated being picked apart. I felt like carrion.

I was still young. I was only on my second water pump. I wasn’t ready to just be thrown away.


1980

“Classic! It’s a classic!” I heard someone say.

“A classic piece of junk, maybe.” Another voice. Deeper. A smoker and cynic.

“The frame is fine and most of the engine is there,” the first one said. I looked around lazily, my one cracked headlight half-filled with water. Tall, skinny, nervous.

“It’ll restore it. I can make it perfect again,” he said.

“It’s an MG-A Twin Cam,” the heavyset one said. “It was never perfect. Hell, even brand-new it barely worked.”

“It must be mine,” skinny said. I felt a burst of love run through my wiring harness.

 

1982

I am born again.

The last sun visor was clipped on and every spark plug was properly gapped. He put the top down with the hushed reverence of a farmer’s market. He slid the key in. It was smooth. He had polished it. It was the little things that made me love him. And I did love him. I wanted him in me. I wanted to be driven. Driven hard, engine roaring, tires squealing, drinking hi-test, and shitting leaded exhaust.

Highway 33. He’s promised me Highway 33. He presses down my clutch and I shudder.

We pull out of his driveway and my tires squeal in delight.